by Lori Shenher
On that morning, commission counsel Art Vertlieb announced to Commissioner Oppal that Anderson had reconsidered and would not be testifying out of concern for her privacy and that of her family. I could only assume Anderson had concluded that she didn’t want to speak publicly about her reasons for fighting back in self-defense, for being a poor, drug-addicted sex worker, for needing the drugs she used to self-medicate to survive the ensuing weeks and months after the attack, and for using the drugs that fateful night, a decision that supposedly made her such a poor witness that the charges could not proceed to court. When I heard of her decision not to testify, I felt secretly elated for her, thinking, Good for you. Why should you have to defend yourself and become a spectacle in front of a system that completely failed you?
The remainder of the week brought Coquitlam regional Crown prosecutor Randi Connor to the stand to discuss her decision to stay the charges against Pickton in the Anderson attack and the fact that the Crown prosecution’s entire file on the incident had been lost. Her testimony and the special protections afforded every Crown prosecutor involved in the decision pushed me into a deep depression I wouldn’t shake for several weeks. It didn’t seem right, but all of the lawyers seemed to accept this obvious double standard in place to protect Crown lawyers.
Commissioner Wally Oppal summarized the challenges in investigating the Criminal Justice Branch in his report Forsaken: The Report of the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry:
“Due to the protections afforded to prosecutorial independence, both Commission Counsel and Participants’ Counsel were not permitted to put questions to Ms. Randi Connor that asked her to second-guess her decision to stay the proceedings or to consider different evidence in reflecting on the reasonableness of her decision. Similarly, I cannot second-guess Ms. Randi Connor’s decision. Different decisions can be considered reasonable, and in these circumstances two reasonable people could make different decisions based on the same facts.
“In the absence of the Crown file, I have been unable to fully assess the work Ms. Randi Connor conducted on the file.”
Commissioner Oppal goes on to state his conclusions: “With respect to her circumstances as a prosecutor, Ms. Randi Connor had 16 witnesses left to prepare one week before a five-day trial. The evidence shows that Law Enforcement Notifications (LENs) were issued to the police witnesses as a routine matter. There is no evidence that Ms. Randi Connor contacted the other witnesses for the trial, therefore I find as fact that she had not contacted them.”
I found it intensely frustrating to watch and couldn’t help yelling “Oh my God!” and “Are you kidding me?” at the computer screen while my work partner, Rowan, sat toiling away in the background, empathizing with the lawyers in the hearing room who were obviously as incensed as we were. Much of Randi Connor’s testimony consisted of vague references to what she “would” do as normal practice on similar files, but very little if any clear recollection or statements of what she actually did on the Anderson file, which the Crown no longer possessed.
Had Anderson died, all sixteen witnesses would have been called to testify. They would have been there if it had been a murder trial. As I had said in my own testimony, as morbid a thought as it is, had Anderson died, this would have been a slam-dunk murder conviction.
EVER SINCE THE provincial government had grudgingly announced the creation of the Missing Women Commission of Inquiry, I had openly criticized it as unwanted, imperfect, and underfunded. As the hearings progressed, I found much of the testimony and the lawyers’ inability to fully cross-examine police witnesses disappointing. I was most disappointed that my questions about the inaction of the RCMP in late 1999 and early 2000 surrounding Ellingsen’s information were not answered. The Missing Women Commission of Inquiry did little for me other than make me feel even worse and more in the dark about the mysteries of the investigation.
As for the manuscript, it continued to sit in my computer. Every time I’d tried to look at it over the years, the frustration and horror of the investigation and the pain of the past years rose up like a summer thunderstorm, and lightning struck down on me, plunging me into an even darker mood and worsening my anger, agitation, and depression. I suppose on some level, rereading the manuscript provided me with some kind of psychological payoff, as though I could punish myself for all the mistakes I had made on the case by taking myself back there over and over again. Maybe I hoped that if I went back there often enough, I might get it right. But I never could get it right. All it did was keep me stuck.
The Missing Women Commission of Inquiry finally rested on June 6, 2012. I was invited to a gathering at Crab Park late that afternoon and decided I had to attend. The intent was for healing; and everyone associated with the inquiry—police, lawyers, media, Indigenous people, and families—was invited. Police were asked not to wear uniforms, which wasn’t a problem for me, since I never wore mine anymore.
I hung out most with Tim Dickson, counsel for the City of Vancouver, and Damon Vignale, producer of the award-winning documentary film The Exhibition, which chronicled Vancouver artist Pamela Masik’s struggle to bring her large striking portraits of the missing women—many of them depicting the same photographs I had used to create the reward poster—to exhibition at the B.C. Museum of Anthropology. There is no doubt the families would have found the exhibition difficult to view; I know I found it hard to see the paintings in the film. There was immense opposition to the exhibition from the women’s families and other Downtown Eastside activists, which created negative publicity and pressured the museum into canceling it. Damon interviewed me for the film, and despite the difficult questions it raises, it is a project with which I have been proud to be associated.
I felt the cancelation of Pamela’s exhibition was a missed opportunity for the story of the missing women—and the larger issues of poverty, colonialism, and racism—to play out on a larger stage. I interpreted Pamela’s use of bold, slashing markings of dark paint across the faces in the paintings as indicative of societal violence against and suppression of women, not as any disrespect toward the victims. Although I tried to understand the concerns that the exhibition might be seen as exploitive, I felt this was yet another example of how the activists and advocates for the missing women perpetuated the very climate they railed against by suppressing their own story and not granting the issue of violence against women a wider audience.
I left Crab Park after an hour or so, hoping Commissioner Oppal’s report—set for an October 2012 release—would mark an end to the investigation and represent the start of healing for all associated. As October approached, word got out there would be yet another delay and the report would not be released until December 2012. I felt confident the report would not be inordinately critical of my efforts as an individual, but that didn’t matter much to me, and the delay did little to alleviate my anxiety and inability to function.
FINALLY, DECEMBER 17 arrived. So many times throughout those years, I’d longed to join the crowd protesting, marching, and bearing further witness to this tragedy, but I was afraid of the very real possibility that I would break down in public again. So I stayed in my office and watched the live feed of Commissioner Oppal’s press conference on my desktop. Snippets of the report were leaked via Twitter throughout the morning by media members frantically scouring the report’s hundreds of pages in lockdown, so I knew most of the highlights before Commissioner Oppal spoke.
As I watched, I felt a familiar anger coupled with a sense of activism rise in me. The press conference was staged in a hotel meeting room and it was packed with advocates for the missing and murdered women and their family members. As Commissioner Oppal tried to speak, the crowd booed and catcalled for several minutes and he could not be heard above them, so he waited. I understood their frustrations, but I felt anger that he wasn’t given the courtesy to speak without ridicule and interruption. Conversely, I felt pride in those present singing loud and proud, not allowing themselves to be silenced. Finally, the crow
d allowed him to speak and present the report. Again, I understood both sides, but I longed for those present to hear Wally, to give him—to give all of us in the criminal justice system—the chance to say and do the right things after so many years of getting it wrong. We all got it wrong.
I desperately hoped I would feel better now that it was truly over. I left work, drove home, and went out for a run, one of many activities I used to love whose joy continued to elude me these last several years. I ran with my iPod on, letting the music move me and touch me, and soon tears came. I found myself on my favorite hill in Queen Elizabeth Park, a quiet wood-chip trail beneath tall evergreens, and I ran up and down over and over. I let the grief and frustration and pain flow out of me, and I just ran, hoping the dam had burst. I arrived home wiped out after an hour or so, feeling somehow cleansed and deeply exhausted.
Over the following week, the exhaustion remained. On the morning of December 24, I sat alone in my office, expecting to work until noon. No one else was there, and I didn’t need to be there either, but I felt too low to be around my family and bring them down. I continued to feel like I wasn’t so much interacting with other people as inflicting myself on them. I felt it was best for everyone if they left me alone. At times over the years, I’d felt it would be better for my family if I just lived alone in a basement beneath them rather than impose this unpredictable, agitated, angry parent and partner on them. It seemed a perfectly reasonable way to live to me then.
I opened the locker in my office and gathered up all of my gear: uniform, hat, toque, gloves, socks, bulletproof vest, assorted jackets and fleece tops, handcuffs, radio pouch, earpiece, belts—everything I needed to be a uniformed police officer other than my boots. I placed it all in a huge duffel bag. Then I opened my locked desk drawer where I kept my sidearm, a Sig Sauer P 226 .40 caliber, along with my ammunition, magazines, and cleaning kit. My gun hadn’t been out of my desk since November 2012, when I’d passed my yearly qualification at the range.
That day, as I had prepared to take my place on the line at the indoor range, Gary Fisk—my Project Amelia teammate whom I had testified against in the inquiry—walked in and took a position several places to my right. Without warning, I began hyperventilating, and I knew I was going into a full-blown panic attack. The range officer noticed my condition and helped me gain control of my breathing. I’d been beset by bizarre fears at the range ever since working on the Pickton file, fear that I’d be accidentally shot or injured, but never anything like this, and I wasn’t about to share my true fears with him. This time, there was someone on the firing line who might actually feel justified in shooting me, but I told the range officer I was just worried about qualifying.
In a workplace of more than thirteen hundred sworn officers who each had the entire year to qualify, what were the odds Fisk and I would select the same range time and day? I wondered if he’d sought me out or asked to see the schedule, though I knew this thinking was totally irrational. I became angry and determined to not let this person and my PTSD stop me from completing my annual pistol qualification. I didn’t want to come back, knowing what it had taken to get myself there this time. I’d rescheduled twice already because of my anxiety.
Luckily, I had a few minutes to get it together during the routine safety briefing, and by the time we’d loaded our pistols, I’d situated myself as far from Fisk as possible and felt ready to go. I qualified easily, with one of my better scores, and looked far down the line with relief to see that Fisk hadn’t qualified and would have to shoot another course of fire. I rushed into the cleaning room, cleaned my equipment, and hustled out, hoping I wouldn’t have to see him again that day.
As I thought back to that day in November, I imagined the furor I would spark if I handed in my pistol to Stores on Christmas Eve without documenting it or advising my sergeant. I locked it back in my drawer and made an entry in my calendar to ask him to keep it for me when we got back after Christmas holidays. He was a good guy, and I knew he would safeguard it for me without raising any unnecessary procedural alarms about my ability to work. I didn’t need a gun in my current position.
Knowing that the building would be deserted on Christmas Eve, I lugged the heavy bag over to the adjoining police station and saw with relief that the Stores window was open for business. I hefted the duffel bag up onto the counter and waited.
A young clerk eventually came to the desk and apologized to me for having to wait.
“No problem,” I said. “I just want to drop this stuff off.” He looked at me quizzically.
“Okay.” He paused and stared at my pile of gear. “That’s a lot of stuff. Are you retiring?”
“No, I’m just not going to be needing it anymore.” He looked into my eyes and I immediately realized his concern.
“Are you okay?” I felt like a jerk for causing him any worry, not wanting this kid to be afraid some twisted cop was going to do something to ruin his Christmas Eve forever.
“Oh my gosh.” I laughed uneasily. “No, I’m fine. I’m just done with this stuff. I’ll be plainclothes from now on.” I wasn’t “fine,” but I wasn’t suicidal.
“Okay.” He smiled with relief and started emptying my duffel bag. “Merry Christmas!”
“Thanks. You have a Merry Christmas, too.” He finished and handed me my bag.
I walked back to my office, gathered up my things, and went home, hoping 2013 would not be a worse year than 2012.
27
Shaking Hands with My Own Devil
• • •
“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.”
EDGAR ALLAN POE
RETURNING TO WORK after Christmas 2012 left me feeling no better. For years, I had relied on my early-morning wake-ups and high anxiety to power me through my life. I had begun to believe this state of hyper-arousal was normal. I had no idea workaholism was a secondary flight response PTSD sufferers sometimes employ to avoid their real problems. I pushed aside everything I’d experienced intensely since February 2002: poor sleep marred by nightmares, a stressful job, and a very sick child and the strain that accompanies that. In 2004, our three-year-old son was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia, and we battled for three-and-a-half years to save his precious life. My partner quit her job to be with him through his torturous chemotherapy treatments, and we took care of our other two children while I worked to support us financially. I was determined to be strong and handle it all. And I did. For more than ten years. Suddenly, over only a few months, I found that energy waning fast, and more and more, I struggled to get myself out of bed for work.
I had submitted a Workers Compensation Board (WCB) claim for PTSD in 2002, shortly after the Pickton search began, and my mental and physical health had declined even further since then. My file was stamped with a short and sweet “Denied” after a cursory investigation into my claim, as was common practice, because mental health claims were not in the legislation at that time. An adjustor phoned me and asked questions around the theme of “Were you actually involved in the search of the farm?” I knew my experience was so much more complex than that, but WCB only had the ability to see things through the lens of physical injury. Can you still use your arm? You lost your leg in a saw?
I think I’m losing my mind from pursuing a serial killer and receiving no support to catch him. It isn’t like you see it on TV, where a detective goes rogue and sorts it all out solo in an hour. There are procedures to follow. Jurisdictions to respect. You need help. Is there a box on your form I can tick for that?
Although I had been on the farm in the early stages of the search in February 2002, I couldn’t even begin to try to explain how much more loaded my involvement and failure was. I felt as though I had no right to feel as I did, even after Geramy and I stood in the Pickton slaughterhouse and trailer, looking at bloody mattresses, freezers, and buckets and seeing things no one should ever have to see, seeing evidence of the victims and knowing they had died there. I had no ability to exp
lain that it was not only the avoidable human suffering but also the massive systemic failure and my part in it that haunted me. It didn’t make sense even to me.
Rennie Hoffman, my good friend and supervisor at the time, encouraged me to appeal, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask him for help and reveal that I was incapable of even writing the appeal myself. Talking about the events and my experiences on the investigation and their impact on my own life was too painful. I remember a vague awareness that I should appeal the claim, that my suffering was real and I may very well have needed the benefits a successful claim would entitle me to, but I possessed zero ability to process what happened or articulate the depths of my grief. I didn’t even know it was grief back then. All I knew was that this experience had damaged me, and I had no idea how to survive it, let alone ask for help. On another level, I felt ashamed seeking out benefits for this tragedy when I wasn’t a victim. There were people far more deserving of help than me.
I sought out a trauma counselor yet again in April 2012, just days after my last day of testimony at the inquiry. I knew then I was in trouble: I felt hopeless and unable to imagine my future, and although I didn’t have any plans of suicide, I thought of it in vague terms. I was profoundly depressed, but knowing firsthand the suffering of those left behind by suicide, I couldn’t imagine doing that to the people I loved and who loved me, no matter how much pain I felt. I felt far more inclined to isolate myself, perhaps say good-bye and go live in the woods somewhere or in a basement suite all by myself where no one would have to put up with me.
I knew for certain I wanted to live. I would later learn that having a partner, a close family, and children and quitting drinking were “protective factors,” and I now see that they saved my life. I had sunk very low, but as Detective Rust Cohle said on the TV show True Detective, “I lack the constitution for suicide.” I didn’t know where there was left for me to go professionally or personally, but I knew enough to hope this couldn’t last forever.